


Behind the Mask

by Mama_Nihil



Category: Ghost (Sweden Band)
Genre: And someone said he needed a hug, Drabble, Gen, I usually write m/m but damn, Poetic rambling, Prequelle hit me in the feels, Well this is my hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-02
Updated: 2018-06-02
Packaged: 2019-05-17 06:56:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14827547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mama_Nihil/pseuds/Mama_Nihil
Summary: A peek behind the mask of the man with the mic. What he does to pass. To spare us.





	Behind the Mask

The door closed on the post-gig tumult like the quiet click of death: the moment a soul loosened its cramping hold on that stale old husk and floated free. Like the snap of a skeleton falling back, devoid of the life force that tethered bone to will.  
  
Death. Heh.  
  
With a sigh, he walked over to the table where he kept his mask. Only someone who stood on the outside looking in could write about death like he did. Only from a distance could the full scope of mortal romance be mined. It was the one thing he couldn’t say in interviews: that he would never die. The mirror showed shiny fabric clinging to flesh that would never rot, never age. The ultimate dream for those who sang along to his lyrics. If they only knew. If they could just taste a fraction of eternity – they would go crazy. Their minds would disintegrate with the endless vastness of it.  
  
He wanted to despise their smallness, their fear, but he couldn’t kid himself. It was what he loved about them. It was what he envied them for: their fleeting, mortal charm. They were so pitiable, but he was full of pity. Just another thing no one knew about him.  
  
Outside that door, fifty-something hopefuls would be clutching their pens and pads, waiting for him to come out. Perhaps the odd brave soul would offer their skin for his ink. Not realizing it was eternal, that they could never wash it off. Hearts beating hard because they thought they were finally about to see his true face – the man whose anonymity had been torn away.  
  
And it was the absolute opposite.  
  
They’d been looking at his true face for the better part of an evening, but they weren’t satisfied until he’d shredded the so-called illusion and catered to the safety-junkie corner of their scared little hearts. They needed him to be someone else, someone not-him. They needed their fantasy to actually be a fantasy. They loved dreaming about it, but if they ever cracked open the reality behind that dream, that would be the end of them.  
  
And so he bowed to their comfort as always. Only for a few hours a night could he go out there as himself and bask in their illusory adulation. Only for a short time on stage could he feel his inner world integrate with the one out there, the one people called reality.  
  
And now it was over. He pulled on the mask, a flimsy coat of suffocation over his true face. Slinking close, glomming onto his skin like a parasite. Breathing in deeply through the gash in the rubber, he stood and ran a hand through the cropped hair he was about to pretend was his own. Beneath it, his real scalp itched to be so trapped, and sweat ran down his temples. On the outside, though, nothing was visible.  
  
Putting on his dark glasses, he shrugged into the leather jacket and threw one last look at his reflection. Yes. He looked alright. Harmless, safe. Someone a fan could approach, someone who would graciously write autographs and offer soft-spoken thanks for their nervous gushing. Pausing for a moment, he closed his eyes. _I am Tobias_.  
  
Then he opened the door and walked towards the tumult by the exit.


End file.
